


Bring a Little Lovin' (And Bagels)

by PeachGO3



Category: Once Upon A Time In Hollywood (2019)
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Canon, Rick Dalton is a hysterical drama queen sdfjsk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-01
Updated: 2019-09-01
Packaged: 2020-10-05 01:14:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20480534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeachGO3/pseuds/PeachGO3
Summary: August 9, 1969: An actor visits his stunt double at the hospital.





	Bring a Little Lovin' (And Bagels)

**Author's Note:**

> I finally watched this movie and I do have some issues with it, but bOY, Leo and Brad Pitt forged me a damn solid OTP, and it’s entirely made out of bro jokes and yeehaw culture and it’s good;; Enjoy this quick thing ☆

In the morning, Rick gets a taxi to the hospital. The California Hospital Medical Center. He’s brought the bagels, Cliff’s faves with cheese and chili. He’s also thought about bringing flowers, but there’s no flower shop opened this early. However, he’s found a Mexican guy who sells flowers.

“What would you say is appropriate for a hospital visit?” Rick asks. The man nods and wants to sell him roses. Rick has a hard time trying to get across that he doesn’t want no roses, especially not red ones. He strokes his hair behind his ear. Almost six am. He finds he should get going and jumps back into the taxi.

He has tunnel vision. What the fuck has happened last night? Rick thought it wasn’t a big deal, but as the sun rose this morning – he found it was. It’s a big deal. Cliff has risked his fucking life. Well, he does that often. He’s a fighter, you wouldn’t want no fight with him, but he’s been plowed and high on acid. He could’ve been…

Rick doesn’t want to end the sentence. He lights himself a cigarette and hopes they will be there soon.

The receptionist recognizes him. “I loved the last season of Bounty Law,” she says. “Thank you, miss, that’s very nice of you,” Rick manages to say. She sounds honest. After a convo that goes on for far too long, she finally guides him to Cliff’s room. “He’s like, your stunt double, right?” she asks.

“Yeah. Takin’ my load and stuff.”

“Taking your…? Oh, alright.”

Rick shakes. “Good-bye, Tina, and thank you.”

“No problem. I must come in with you though, Mr. Dalton,” she says, and Rick could’ve punched the wall, because he’s made himself ready to finally cry, but now he has to hold back the tears for even longer. His throat burns like hell.

“Good morning, Mr. Booth,” Tina says. “Mr. Rick Dalton is here to visit you.”

Rick stares inside the room. Under the window, Cliff lies in a pure white bed, covered in bandages and stupid hospital clothing. His shirt was somewhere on some chair. “Hey,” he says in his usual voice, giving Rick a smile. Fuck.

“Thank you, Tina,” Rick says again, firmer this time. He shuts the door behind him and makes his way past all the other beds. “You’re early,” Cliff jokes wearily, but Rick just stares down at him, grimacing. He rubs his face, counts to three and breathes. Then he opens his eyes and tries a smile.

“Good to see you, despite the early hour,” Cliff says.

“Couldn’t possibly break my promise,” Rick says astonishingly calm and fumbles with the box of bagels. “Just from the gas station,” he utters, but Cliff chuckles already.

“Those are the best,” he says. “C’mon, let me have my breakfast.”

“I… I would’ve – told the taxi to drive to a bakery and get more expensive ones, I…”

“Rick,” Cliff says, “just sit down.”

Rick nods and sits down. He watches Cliff eat the bagels (“Wow, chili!”) and decides to tell him about the night. About his neighbor Sharon, who’s a really sweet person, and about how Brandy is fine. About how Francesca said she needed a break after all of this. “She wants to fly back to Italy this morning,” Rick tells him.

“Really?”

“Yeah. N-nothing like a break-up or so, she just… needs some time. Wants to visit her mom.”

Cliff shrugs. “Francesca is a sweetheart, she wouldn’t leave just like that. Don’t worry.” He eats another bagel and hands Rick the box. “Don’t you wanna breakfast with me? I’ve been looking forward to it,” he says.

Rick rubs his hands on his legs. “No, I, err… Sorry, I can’t eat right now.”

“Ah. I’ll order you coffee over this neat button right here, if you like.”

“No, thanks. Not feeling well,” Rick says. He finally manages to stop looking anywhere else but his friend lying in a hospital bed. “Are you alright?” he asks, voice breaking.

“I am, yeah,” Cliff says casually. “Still sobering up. Head hurts like hell. But I’ve had worse days on set to be honest.”

“But not with me,” Rick panics.

“Naah, not with you. Back in the day.”

Rick nods. Alright. “Okay.”

“The wound from that fucking knife is deep, but I ain’t paralyzed or anythin’. Got some bruises and a broken rip, that’s all.”

“Really? ‘cause the receptionist said you got a hema… hema-something or so, I didn’t know what that was.”

Cliff chuckles and shifts a bit. “Yeah. Hematoma, that’s fancy speak for bruise,” he smiles. “No worries. I’ll be out tomorrow.”

Alright. Okay. Bruises. And a broken rip? Fuck. Rick raises his hand to his mouth, eyes starting to burn. “You…”

Cliff waits for him to speak, as he always does. Rick looks up. He’s so fucking glad no one but Cliff can see him like this. He starts again: “You… you shouldn’t be here, buddy. I… I was in that fucking pool and you were out there fighting those hippie assholes…”

“Hey, man, it’s alright,” Cliff grins. His grin is the same as always, if a little bit more tired. Rick weeps and lowers his head, he wants to rest, he wants to rest his head on Cliff’s steady chest.

He’s a fucking wreck.

“Cliff…”

“Whoah, ouch.” Cliff flinches at the touch, but brings up his hand to Rick’s hair nonetheless. “That was the hematoma,” he hisses.

“Oh fuck. Fuck, Cliff, I’m sorry.”

“Hey. Hey, partner, look at me.” And Rick does look at him, but it hurts. It hurts to see his best friend like this. Eye circles and bruises. Cliff just sighs. “Don’t cry in front of the Mexican,” he says. There’s a Mexican in here? Rick turns around.

“Oh, wait, he’s in a coma,” Cliff remembers.

“Does that count…?”

“Why not?”

“Maybe he’s f-fucking dead,” Rick weeps.

“Hey, buddy.” Cliff points his head back to the other bed. “Check out the ECG. That beepin’ thing. It’s beepin’ just fine. Means he’s alive,” Cliff explains. He doesn’t need to explain that, Rick knows this shit, he knows, he’s just too emotional to think a single fucking normal thought.

“Ah, right. That’s his… h-heart and shit,” he utters and pulls back. He wants to light a cigarette but fails because of his shaking hands, and he breaks, tears flowing.

“Oh, fuck this shit, fuck all of this.”

“Oh boy. Calm down, Rick, it’s nothing too severe. Everything is alright. Think somethin’ positive, will ya? Think of a nice massage post-filming.”

“No!” Rick goes and leans in again to hold Cliff’s head in both of his hands. “No. Fucking hell. Because all I can think about is how fucking sorry I am and how…” – learn to speak like a human being, you idiot – “how b-badly I wanna kiss you… right now, Cliff.”

Cliff chuckles. “Really? How bad is it?” he asks. Rick watches him for a bit longer. It doesn’t hurt anymore. It soothes him, they soothe him. Those blue eyes. The familiar smile. The steady breathing. “Real fucking bad,” Rick realizes.

“Well,” Cliff says, fishing for a cigarette of his own, “you really shouldn’t.”

Rick softens.

“You got a wonderful wife waitin’ to get better and spoil you again,” Cliff says. Rick lowers his hands, pulls them away from the warm face without patting his neck. He hands Cliff the lighter and leans back into the hospital chair, powerless.

Cliff always has his back. Always there for him, picking up after his shit. But Rick’s let him down. No wonder he wants no fucking kiss. Kiss. What the fuck was wrong with him? Rick feels like a crumpled balloon.

“You shouldn’t be kissing your stunt man,” Cliff says and stares at the ceiling. He blows some smoke up in the air. “You shouldn’t be kissin’ your stunt man,” he repeats, and Rick nods, taking the cigarette Cliff offers him to smoke together.

Their eyes lock as their hands touch, and Cliff sighs, shakes his head and chuckles. “If at all,” he says, propping himself up, “your stunt man oughta kiss you, partner.”

Ere Rick can react to that in any way, Cliff leans in and catches his lips in the softest and warmest and most needed kiss Rick has ever shared with anyone. But it’s over just as fast. He blinks. Probably for the better, ‘cause otherwise he’d kissed him back. Nonetheless – as soon as Rick stares into this man’s glowing face, he hears music play and guns fire.

Fuck Missouri.

Rick can’t help but smile. He then notices he’s let the cigarette fall onto the blanket, and it’s catching fire. “Put it out! Oh, shit, put it out!”

“Take the blanket.”

“Yeah! Yeah, the blanket! Fuck!”

Is there anything Cliff can’t do? ‘cause he’s a damn good kisser, Rick thinks as he leaves the building later on. It’s a sunny morning in L.A. and he just got the best kiss ever. “Goddamn,” Rick says as he collects himself. What a lucky bastard he is.


End file.
